


Raising Cain

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This one just came calling and asked to be written. The underlying premise is that Sherlock, at a younger stage, was exploring sexually, if not entirely happily or comfortably. I'm not sure where this falls in my own canon perceptions. As I'm more committed to Sherlock as celibate and not entirely at ease with his own sexual desires than virginal, I think it fits without too much fuss--but I'm still working on canon-compliant BBC Sherlock. He's not easy to sort out.</p><p>Anyway. Mycroft and Greg come to a turning point in their relationship, and it raises questions--and some domestic spats. Not bad, not serious--but enough to get me through a Mystrade story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raising Cain

"Are you ashamed of us?" Mycroft asked, voice soft and dangerous, hovering between control and threat. "You don't have to come out."

No, Greg thought. He didn't have to come out--but Mycroft would leave if he didn't. Not out of malice, but because Mycroft could not emotionally or professionally endure one more hidden, secret element in his life. Greg could hear the suppressed fear and pain in Mycroft's voice, read it in his eyes, see it in the angle of his spine and the set of his shoulders. Mycroft loved Greg--but Mycroft was not, in the end, self-destructive or masochistic. He would not accept a lover who feared to admit to that shared love.

And good for him--Greg would want no such sacrifice. He'd fallen in love with a man of honor, odd and occult though that honor might be. But he didn't know how he dared make their relationship "public," for the very restricted form of publicity Mycroft's and Greg's lives permitted.

"It would only be a few people," Mycroft said, his voice still stripped down to pained control. "My parents. Sherlock--and I suppose if Sherlock knows so will his little clique. He can't be trusted not to blab secrets--at least, he can't be trusted not to blab my personal secrets."

"You should talk to Donovan or Anderson about that," Greg murmured. "They'd sympathize."

"And you don't?"

"Huh? No--no, I sympathize. He's spread enough of my private life around our little circle." He grimaced. "That's at least part of the problem. Once he knows, it's going to get out to John and Mary and Molly and Mrs. Hudson--and by then we might as well give up. Pretty soon there won't be anyone who doesn't know."

"And you would object to that?"

"The way Sherlock would put it out there? Hell, yes. He can turn virtue to vice with one nasty quip and a wicked little sneer. I can't believe you're willing to take the risk."

"I've already discussed it with Anthea and Lady Smallwood," Mycroft said, with dignity. "We've come up with strategies to deal with Sherlock's inevitable libels. We can even turn some of it to our advantage."

They probably could. They were masters of spin. Greg shrugged, grudgingly, but said, "And how well will you control how my team takes it? Donovan's already hanging on to her loyalty to me by her fingernails thanks to Sherlock. Adding Sherlock's version of us to the mix? I could find myself looking for a new Detective Sergeant."

"Tragedy," Mycroft drawled--but Mycroft had trouble fully accepting Greg's affection for Sally, or his desire to keep the acerbic DS as his partner in the field. Of course, he didn't see all the ways he and Sally resembled each other. "Obviously a compelling reason to deny our relationship."

"D'uh. You're just looking for reasons to feel hurt," Greg snapped--and knew he'd spoken too soon, and too much out of his own defensive frustration. "Sorry. But--that's not it. I just..." He threw up his hands in angry surrender. "Fine. All right. Let the cat out of the bag. Tell Mummy and Father and your brother, and I'll tell Donovan so she doesn't hear it from Sherlock, and from there on it, whatever. It's your choice."

Mycroft looked stabbed to the heart.

Of course, he was stabbed to the heart, at least metaphorically. Greg glowered. "I'm sorry. All right? I'm sorry. I'm not ashamed of being bi, I'm not ashamed of being with you, I can't be arsed to care what people think. So--go for it. I love you, and that's going to have to do."

Mycroft studied him, a worried crease forming between his brows. After long consideration and far too close scrutiny of his partner, he said, "You do mean that." It wasn't a question...or a celebration. It was emotionless, calm evaluation. "Or--no. You mostly mean it. What aren't you saying?"

"Nothing," Greg snapped. "Nothing you have to care about."

"I'm your lover," Mycroft said, hovering on the edge of peevishness. "Of course I have to care."

"Just don't. Really, Mike. Just don't." Greg sighed and swerved away, not looking at his lover. "Look, I'm going out to smoke a few fags, drink a pint or two, and watch Arsenal trash Man U. I'll be back--I promise, I'm not storming out in a pet. I just need to vent a bit and unwind. We can talk again later."

Mycroft, wise man that he was, nodded. "Very well." He stood and started clearing plates from the dinner table. Softly he said, "You'll be welcome when you come. I didn't intend this to become a barrier between us...and I don't intend to take it as such now."

Greg felt sudden grief surge, overcome him, and slip away. "You're a good man," he said. "I love you. This isn't about that. It's about--complications. That's all. Sometimes the sensible, obvious thing to do is still the wrong thing, all right? I'm not ashamed of loving you. But I'm scared what's going to happen when our world knows." He pulled his overcoat on over his shirt, ignoring the office jacket hung neatly back in the closet Mycroft had dedicated to him, back in the master bedroom. He hunched, feeling small and shaken and in need of a safe line of retreat. "Later, Mike. I promise, I'll be home later."

"I can call my driver for you."

"No."

"It would be safer than driving yourself, if you're planning on drinking."

"Thought I'd walk, actually. The Gull isn't far from here."

"Very well." Mycroft left the kitchen and trailed Greg to the door, catching his elbow and leaning in close to drop a kiss on his cheek. "Be careful. Come home soon. I love you."

"Love you, too," Greg said, and slipped out of the flat and down the little foyer to the lift.

As it was, he didn't end up drinking. He skipped the Gull entirely, opting instead to walk long miles along Pall Mall, then up through Mayfair, then back around and down, thinking and smoking and brooding.

The problem wasn't whether he loved Mycroft, he thought. Nor was it a matter of shame. If it weren't for the consequences of letting the world--meaning mainly Sherlock--know about their relationship, he'd be happy to shout it from the top of St. Paul's, and trust Mycroft and Lady S to sort out any real-world repercussions. Unfortunately the entire thing logically entailed letting Sherlock know...

And Lestrade had slept with Sherlock, long, long ago--and had ended that long ago. Not only had Lestrade been married, but Sherlock had been too emotionally immature, too uncomfortable with any possible version of his sexuality, and far too torn between panicked retreat and grasping possessiveness. Lestrade had been fool enough to react when the slim young man had practically assaulted him, with clumsy, obsessive curiosity and complete lack of skill. He'd allowed himself to be seduced by innocence and puppy-clumsiness and the need of an addict for something, anything to distract him from his addiction.

It had lasted about three weeks. Ending it had taken one long, painful night of excuses that Sherlock tried to pick apart one at a time, using every deductive punch and sarcastic jab in his arsenal of tricks. In the end Sherlock had accepted one and only one reason from Greg: "I just don't want to."

Greg hadn't seen him for months after that--and when he'd reappeared Sherlock had been more testy and tempestuous than ever, but had never again mentioned their time together. It was as though none of it had ever happened--except it had.

Over the years since, Sherlock had settled into what, to Lestrade, looked like a celibacy he found far more comfortable than he'd ever found his earlier blind gropings for "normal" sexual involvement. He suspected Sherlock was naturally ill-at-ease with sexuality, more likely to take part for ulterior motives than true desire. That didn't mean he wasn't vain, though, or possessive, or competitive with Mycroft. When he realized Big Brother had won the man who'd turned Sherlock himself down...

There were phrases for the situation that would follow. "Going pear-shaped" was among the few polite ones. Most involved fans and feces, and similarly distasteful expressions of dire misfortune.

He'd gone through nearly a half a pack--all he had with him--before he gave up on brooding and looking for solutions to the shit-storm that would occur once Sherlock was made aware of Greg and Mycroft's relationship. With heavy feet and a heavier heart he plodded back to Mycroft's building, back up the lift, and back into the elegant little flat. He hung his coat up, heeled off his shoes, and padded down the hallway to the master bedroom. He undressed silently and slid into bed beside Mycroft, not bothering to locate his pajamas.

He curled up, letting his back press up against Mycroft's, enjoying the luxury of knowing his lover was there. He listened to Mike's steady breathing, still and firm as a metronome.

"You're not asleep," he said.

"Of course not. I'm not snoring. And by extension if I were trying to convince you I was asleep--I'd be snoring."

"True-that." Greg smiled. Mycroft's dry wit was not so unlike his own. It was charming, when it wasn't maddening as hell. "I've got a confession to make."

"Indeed?" Mycroft didn't sound too afraid--but, then, Mycroft was courage of a strange and silent sort.

"Yeah. Um--a long time ago. Before you and I started anything. Um...I slept with Sherlock a few times."

"Yes? And?"

Greg sighed. "You knew?"

"Course I knew, you berk." His voice was fond. "He jumped you in his old apartment on Montague Street in the first month after he started working with you. You'd sorted it out and set him aside before the second month." He paused, and said, with a smile Greg could see in spite of the dark and the fact that they lay back to back, "I'm not stupid, Greg. Nor ignorant. I leave that to Sherlock."

"Yeah--and the tantrums and tempests," Greg said, then continued, "And tantrums and tempests are the least he's going to set loose when he realizes I chose you."

"It's hardly as though he's shown any interest in keeping you since those first days."

"Doesn't mean he's not jealous and resentful."

"Are you sure you're not flattering yourself?"

Greg laughed. "It's not about me, Mike. It's about you. I picked you. You're older, saner, smarter, more successful--and you're a better damned lover. I picked you."

There was silence.

"Mike?"

"I...I'm sorry. I hadn't thought of it that way." Mycroft's voice shook, slightly. "I never even considered...I just thought it a wonder you picked me over anyone else. I hadn't stopped to think of the fact that you picked me over Sherlock." He gave a sudden, nervous giggle, and said. "Damn. Bugger. Now you've brought it up--" he gave a gusty sigh, and said, shakily. "Consider me chuffed. You picked me over Sherlock. My goodness..."

"Yes. And he's going to hate it like fire. And he's going to make us pay for it."

"I suppose he will."

They lay together, feet touching, bums touching, backs touching.

"That's why I was worried," Greg said.

"Mmmm."

"He's going to make your life hell."

Mycroft suddenly laughed, and leaned back hard against Greg's spine. "He can't. So long as I have you, the worst he can manage is to make my life purgatory. Let him sulk, Greg. It's still time we went public."

"You're sure?"

"Certain."

Greg smiled and sighed. He was under no illusion that Sherlock would not buck and fret and lash at them--not out of special love of Greg, though he did hate sharing his toys. Jealousy of Mycroft would drive his anger. But in the end, he agreed with Mycroft--Sherlock would be hard-put to make their lives miserable so long as they had each other.

He smiled, and said, in a murmur already slipping into sleep, "Good. Go for it then, love." Then he turned over and wrapped Mycroft close, spooning himself against his lover, and fell asleep, letting his worries drift away in the security of being Mycroft's--and of Mycroft being his.


End file.
